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But aunt Corinne secretly suspected it was made of gold, to enclose some dear little baby whose mother would not put it into anything else. At New Carlisle, a sleepy little village where the dogfennel was wonderfully advanced for June, Zene took the gray from the wagon and hitched him to the carriage, substituting Old Hickory.
"They always have a hole dug, you know, right under the window, to catch folks in." "Yes, I did," responded Zene, leaping a possible hole in his account. "I guess I cleared forty rod, and I come down on all-fours behind a straw-pile right in the stable-lot." "Did the thing follow you?"
Zene's wagon cover, like a big white blur, moved steadily in front, and presently Hickory and Henry ran their noses against it, and seemed to relish the knock which the carriage-pole gave the feed-box. Zene had halted to listen. It was dark in the woods. A rustle could be heard now and then as of some tiny four-footed creature moving the stiff grass; or a twig cracked.
But finding that no lives were lost, it put on steam and disappeared on its course, and Zene and his trembling assistant were trying to prop up one corner of the wagon when Grandma Padgett brought her spectacles to bear upon the scene. One hind wheel had been splintered by the train, the leap of the gray turning the wagon from the road.
He took thankfully what was kept for him, and Robert Day felt certain Zene was trying to bestow on him some conscience-stricken glances. It was an occasion on which Zene could be made to tell a story. He was not lavish with such curious ones as he knew.
Zene was as anxious to reach the meeting-house as the man who cantered ahead. They drew up to where it basked on the rising ground, an old brown frame with lichens crusting the roof. There were two front doors, a flight of wooden steps leading up to each, and three high windows along the visible side.
He was a quiet, singular fellow, halting in his walk on account of the unevenness of his legs; but faithful to the family as either Boswell or Johnson. Grandma Padgett having brought him up from a lone and forsaken child, relied upon all the good qualities she discovered from time to time, and she saw nothing ludicrous in Zene. But aunt Corinne and Bobaday never ceased to titter at Zene's "marm."
Zene drove close behind her, and when they were about to recross a shallow creek, scooped between two easy swells and floating a good deal of wild grapevine and darkly reflecting many sycamores, he came forward and loosened the check-reins of Hickory and Henry to let them drink. Grandma Padgett felt impatient at any delay. "I don't think they want water, Zene," said she.
"How did the man look?" he inquired. "I can't tell you that," replied Zene, "bekaze I was so struck with the looks of the woman that I looked right past him." Robert considered the cast in Zene's eyes, and felt in doubt whether he looked at the man and saw the woman, or looked at the woman and saw the man. "Was she pretty?" "Pretty!" replied Zene.
The tavern-keeper interested himself; the chamber maids were sympathetic. Two hostlers and a bartender went different ways through the town making inquiries. The landlady thought the children might have wandered off to the movers' encampment, where there were other children to play with. Grandma Padgett bade Zene put himself on one of the carriage horses and post to camp.
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